Vivified: a Verbose Vignette
by Sinead Rivka
Summary: What if Evey had come back before the final Fifth of November? And what if she were able to talk to V as the man, not the ideal? I suck at summaries . . . Please R&R!
1. Chapter I

Vivified: a Verbose Vignette  
By: Sinead

* * *

He shouldn't've done it. He really shouldn't've gone off and gotten himself involved with her or with what she had to offer. It was a horrid way for him to truly lose whatever he had left of himself. He didn't have any of the details of who he had been, why he had even been interred in the detention facility. He didn't have many memories of the first half of his life left, and now to ruin what he had left upon unrequited . . . well . . . affection. He was no longer sure if he could muster up anything past affection anymore.

And now he was going to lose himself in her.

A girl.

One who probably didn't even care about his wishes.

She hated him, and it had been his fault.

"V?"

"Mm?" He looked up from his book, instincts screaming at him to hide his emotions from his expression . . . when he remembered that he . . . didn't have a face anymore. "Is something the matter?"

Evey sat upon the armchair that rested at a ninety-degree angle from his reading couch, hands lightly clasped together, her gaze intend upon her fingernails. "No. Well . . . yes. Somewhat."

Placing a small scrap of paper within the pages to mark his place in the book, V faced Evey without saying anything, just giving her his full attention. He just didn't know what to say to ask her if she really wanted to confide in him her worries.

Bugger his inadequacies.

"V . . . what had your name been before . . . before you took this one on?"

She wanted to know about him? Why? Sighing, the man shook his head, the wig softly flowing around his mask with its own individual whisper. "I . . . I can't remember it anymore."

"Is it because you've called yourself V for so long?"

"No . . . circumstances caused me to forget it."

"What were they?"

He _really_ didn't want to go into his past today, not after he had relived it to show her what he had to deal with in Larkhill, and his silence spoke that discomfort to Evey Hammond.

"You still don't trust me . . . even after I came back."

"I . . . Evey, please try to understand. There . . . what they had done to me . . . at the facility . . . every little part of it created someone . . . new. The pain, fear, hatred . . . all of it had erased who I had been before. I simply cannot remember."

Evey rubbed her hand over the slowly-growing-back hair that V himself had shaved off. He looked away from her sharply, again reminded of why she hated him. Of why he truly hated himself for what he had done to her. He heard a shifting of fabric, and his shoulders dropped a fraction. She was going to leave again. This time . . . he was sure that she wasn't going to return.

No. He couldn't let her leave again. He would die if she left him again!

Moving suddenly to try to stop her, he found himself staring into her smiling face as she sat beside him, taking his gloved hand into hers and tracing the stitching of the worn, supple leather. "Can you tell me why you have been avoiding me? I came back to help you prepare for what you said you have to do. Your Revolution. Not to watch you skulk around and watch me when you think I'm not aware of it. Not to hear you try not to sob with pain. I don't even know if that pain is physical, or . . . or otherwise." Her warm brown eyes stared into the depths of the mask, unable to see his own eyes. "V . . . what you did to me was . . . it wasn't how I wished to be rid of my fear, I admit . . . but it boiled the dross away. It shaved me down to the very innermost part of myself, stripping me of all my worries, my fears, my broken hopes . . . You helped me become someone more. You helped me not fear . . ."

"I recreated you to hate . . ."

"Then why do I _not_ hate you? You gave me a window to look into why you are the way you are. Why do I not hate anyone for what they have done to this country? I pity them. Their minds are closed. Their actions are dictated through fear. I don't hate anyone anymore. I pity them."

"I don't need your pity," he whispered harshly, pulling away with a sharp movement . . . but then paused as he realized that her hands kept the black leather glove within them . . . his scarred hand, pockmarked with angry red reminders of the fire . . . it stared up between them, contrasting against the black of his outfit, and the dark blue of her own.

Evey placed the glove upon her lap, one of her soft, delicate hands reaching up to trace over his knuckles, the movement so tender and tentative.

He hadn't been touched . . . for so very long.

When she moved her hand back, he gasped almost so softly that it almost went unheard. But Evey looked up at his mask, her hands taking his uncovered one between them, causing him to bow his head and revel in the touch of skin upon skin . . .

"V . . . you never had my pity. You've always had a strange sort of affection from me . . . a strange but wonderful love that I never would have guessed that I could have held for anyone . . . I never pitied you. I never could be able to." She drew his hand up to her face, kissing each finger softly, then resting his palm against her cheek, closing her eyes.

The man nearly melted at the touch of her baby-soft cheek.

He leaned closer, his arm pulling her closer against his side as he rested his forehead against hers softly. No . . . he rested his mask's forehead against her. She smiled and whispered, "It's all right, you know."

"What is?" he whispered, his fingers tracing the strong line of her jaw, having wanted to do that since he had seen and met this intriguing young woman.

"That you don't want to show your face. That you are afraid of what I might think of you. That you don't want to feel embarrassed by the physical show of the struggle you've lived through. It's all right. I respect that. I . . . I understand that."

"Evey . . ."

She smiled softly, her fingers tracing the edges of his mask. Her answer mimicked his own. "Mm?"

He pulled his hands from her, pulling his other glove off to rest both palms against her face, holding her head still to look deep into her eyes. Biting his thin, scarred lips, he stood, his hands sliding along her arms to take her hands, gently pulling her to her feet. "Come with me."

The gloves were left upon the floor as he drew her to his dressing room. With a sigh, he sat upon his chair, and reached up to his face, loosening the ties to his mask, but then paused . . . unsure of this new action . . . seeing the reflection of the one person in this world whom he would die for watching him softly, yet intently, not wanting to miss a single detail. His fingers began to shake, and he couldn't bring himself to do it. He couldn't pull his mask off.

Then those bewitchingly soft hands of Evey's rested upon his own, and a kiss was placed upon the mask's cheek. "I told you . . . it's all right."

He waited until he was sure his voice would be strong enough to answer, and during those brief seconds, her arms had rested over his shoulders, down upon his chest, and her chin rested upon his shoulder softly. She spoke before he was able to. "V . . . I don't want you to die on the fifth."

"Evey . . ."

"V, listen to me. You asked me one thing, and I didn't want to do it, but I did. I came back. I overcame what had been resentment of the treatment you had given to me throughout this past year, and I became stronger for it." Her eyes bored into the black recesses of his mask. "V, please."

He bowed his head, and his hands went up again. This time, they pulled the mask off of his face. His head was still bowed, still partially in shadow, but his eyes looked up.

Evey stepped back, and her heart burst within her at the power within those eyes. The will in them, the force of true personality and the wariness of one who had been hurt one too many times in their life. As the hurt at her stepping back flooded his face and his hands went back up to replace the mask, she stepped in and moved around him slowly, one hand gently keeping the mask from going any higher than V's chest-level. She smiled ever so softly, looking into the eyes as they were, not through a reflection of them. Kneeling upon the floor, she looked up into his burn-scarred face, seeing how his nose was almost completely gone, his ears little more than lumps of flesh resting upon the sides of his face, how his eyes, while evenly placed, one wouldn't open all the way anymore. He had no eyebrows. The flesh was the same as his hands: angry, red, pockmarked . . . tender.

She reached beneath his wig, finding his chin, and tipping his head up to the proud set it usually sat at. And she spoke. "Your eyes are beautiful . . ."

For the first time, she heard his voice unfiltered through a mask. "Evey, please . . ."

"Your chin shows that you're more stubborn than I am, still stronger than I am."

Tears began to flow. "Evey . . ."

"Your cheekbones are high and wide . . . and these . . ." Her fingers gently traced the smile-lines over his cheeks, through which tears were finding a safe path down the poor, scarred skin. "You still find reasons to smile . . ." The cool fingertips traces the clumsy crow's-feet at the corners of his eyes. "To continue to smile tenderly . . ."

"Please stop . . ." he cried through a whisper, trembling.

She rose up on her knees, her hands cradling his jaw, her own voice a tender whisper, "You are the most handsome man . . . that I have ever met in my life. And it's the strength and beauty within you that shines through your eyes that makes me truly believe in you and the cause you and I must finish . . . and live through. I want you to see the other side, V. I want you to be there as we try to remake the England that once was . . . as the England that will have to be for our children."

He almost choked. "_Our_ children?"

The shock clearly written over his face caused Evey to giggle. Her hands traced his scarred features again. "Not literally. When you got drunk that one time on the celebration of one of the old holidays . . . trust me, I set you onto the couch as you were and let you sleep it off tucked in under a warm quilt. I couldn't get you any further than there on my own, since you decided that it had been the opportune time to pass out. You can trust me on that. Whatever happened after I turned the lights low and went into my room is all upon your head." Her smile was soft and warm at the fond memory. It was the only time that she had been the nurturer in this strange relationship, and since then she had been doing small things to reassure him that she could help take care of him, too. So far, he was letting her.

"Yes, well, I . . ." V cleared his throat, looking at Evey's face openly, his own features showing hope that she wouldn't run off . . . now that she had seen the face beneath his mask.

"You wished that it could have been so? That can easily be arranged. I hope."

Clearing his throat again, V lowered his eyes in the expression that one who would have been blushing would take on. He could no longer blush. He hadn't been able to blush for a long time. And felt a slight pressure, a touch damp, upon his forehead. It matched the same sensation that he had felt upon his hand when they had been sitting . . . upon the . . . couch.

She kissed him. His face.

Looking up sharply, he managed to knock the remainder of his nose and part of his cheek into her chin. Evey yelped softly just as V did, and both of them released each other to press their hands against the paining sections of their respective faces. "Oh, God, now you really _must_ hate me," V whispered through his hands.

But the sound of mirthful chortles reached him, and he opened one of his eyes long enough to see Evey sitting upon her prim little bottom, giggling the world away. When she saw him watching her, she only laughed a little harder, unable to stand from the sitting position that she had fallen into. His foot was in the way. So she rubbed at her chin with one hand, and the other was used to hook around his knee, using his leg as leverage to kneel again.

"V . . . you are absolutely, wonderfully, innocently the most comfortingly and most precious person I know," she managed to say without laughing.

"You've been drinking something, haven't you? Got into my wine again, I see," V teased, holding his hands out to her. She took them, and he helped her stand. That action was only to pull her to himself, embracing her, his knees upon the outsides of her own, and his face pressed firmly into her stomach, breathing in her scent, drinking in the euphoric vintage that was the presence and love of another human being.

Evey carefully pulled the wig off of V's head, gently placing it upon the wig-stand behind her. Her hands brushed over the scarred skin of his scalp, tenderly tracing scars that had occurred after the burning. He never spoke of how he was burnt. Never said how he had escaped Larkhill, either. But that was inconsequential. That he had survived the detention center was enough.

"V, I love you."

His shoulders went stiff, then began to shake violently. He was crying, and she felt the tears begin to soak the front of her shirt. Her hands continued their soft and tender exploration of his abused skin.

"I will always love you."

V held onto Evey as hard as he dared, and he whispered back, "I could never have asked of you to even begin to . . . to regard me . . ."

"You are such an actor . . . speak to me as the man, not as the ideal."

"Harsh words, mistress . . ."

"It's because I care for you that I can tell you the truth."

"I doubt it not," he whispered, eyes closed as he turned his head, now pressing his ear against her stomach and listening to her heartbeat. "Evey, I don't know if I can love anymore."

She was silent, but not still. Those infernally soft hands of hers coaxed him to continue. "I don't know if I will ever be able to love after Larkhill. After what they had done to me. I just don't know if I am capable of it anymore."

Evey let that rest between them for a while. "V?"

"Mm?"

"When I said 'our children,' what were you thinking?"

"That . . . I was happy. But scared."

"Why scared?"

"Because . . . I . . . wasn't . . . I wasn't going to . . . be there for them. I wasn't going to be able to be the right father . . . I suddenly realized that I would have had a choice to either die for this new era to be birthed . . . or live so that the children could be birthed."

Evey smiled down at V, whispering, "What would you have chosen?"

"To be there for the children."

"You would have given up your vendetta?"

"Don't use this as a vice against me, woman. I will _not_ be with you if those are to be your plans," he growled out, eyes opening but not to look at her. They lit upon the mask, now lying upon the floor.

"V, you're forgetting to trust me."

He growled something out again, this time incomprehensible.

Evey laughed softly, then sighed, leaning back to look into his face, her fingers playing with his high collar. "So you think that gives you leave to be with me at all?"

Caught by his own words, the survivor opened his mouth, then shut it, trying to find a way out without saying something wrong.

Evey saved him from that fate of saying the wrong thing to a woman. "Because you might have the permission anyway, if you but ask."

"Oh . . . _God_ . . . Evey . . ."

She only smiled down at him, whispering, "But I don't have any of the supplies. You'd be risking my carrying a child tonight, anyway."

"I . . . you . . . but . . . Dammit, Evey, you are frustrating."

"Taught by the _very_ best."

Swearing, V had to agree with her upon that. Huffing out a sigh, he stood and picked Evey up in one smooth movement, cradling her in order to breathe in the scent of her skin at the base of her jaw. Carrying her out and towards the one room she hadn't yet seen, he whispered, "Then if I tempt fate . . . I'll tempt it with a reason and a hope . . ."

"That's not Shakespeare."

"No," he agreed with a whisper, looking into her eyes from his close angle, still worrying about her reaction to his true face.

"Can you put me down?"

He did so . . . very, very reluctantly. But Evey shocked him once again, this time by pulling herself against _his_ chest. She pulled back after a moment, her face angled just the right way to be kissed . . . as if she was inviting his kiss.

Before he could argue against himself, V pressed his thin lips against hers, then felt her kiss him back fiercely.

What that he could bottle her ferocity and tenacity . . . he would be set for life. "Evey?"

"Please."

"Of course."

"But . . . on one condition?"

He winced. "With the mask on, I'm assuming."

Her face was the very picture of confusion. "Whatever are you talking about?"

V stood more confused than she was, and sighed. "Oh. Sorry."

"Stop worrying about your face and your appearance. I love you for who you are inside."

"I still don't understand that, you must know."

"I know. But . . . I don't want just one night, one instance."

"Oh?"

"I want a lifetime of you."

V bit his lip again.

"And . . . I don't want to break my heart if I can't have that lifetime of you."

"All or nothing, then."

"Yes."

"So . . . I now have another choice . . . you . . . or my vendetta."

"Yes."

"And I can't have both."

"I don't feel like debating it right now, no."

"Damn."

"Exactly."

"Exactly?"

Evey smiled softly, her face still angled up. "Compromise with me, and hold to your word. No arguing. Can we both agree to do that?"

He kissed her again, unable to resist that invitation, thinking hard upon what she might be able to ask about. V warred against himself for a long few moments, then with a sigh, he asked, "Would it be possible to agree or disagree after hearing the compromise?"

"Yes."

"Then tell me what you would propose this compromise to be."

"You would tell me all of your plans . . . and I do mean by _all_ even and _especially_ if the plan involves your death. You would tell me, and I will help you in bringing all of England down upon her knees to begin the new era. But you would not die. You would not have to be a public figure, or any more of a public figure than you already are. I . . . I would, if it is your wishes, remain here with you."

"I could never live another day without you," he breathed. "Is that all I would have to agree to?"

Evey thought the concept through again, a delicate frown placing her eyebrows at precarious angles to one another. V chuckled, kissing the small hill of puckered skin between her eyebrows. She sighed. "I just want to help you. And I don't want you to die."

"Then . . . I agree, Evey Hammond. I will show you all of my plans, every last one. And those which call for my death I will share with you, then discard. And I would most gladly have you live here with me. My home seemed more empty than I liked when you had left."

"My life seemed empty without you in it for those few months."

"I never want to be . . ." V cut himself off, _completely_ sure that the words to follow that beginning of that sentence was by far too soon to be spoken. This was one thing he held as a certainty.

But . . . Evey whispered, completing the sentence, "Without you for another day of my life."

They shared a gaze, one of searching the other, tenderly hoping for the possibility that things would become different, and the world of tomorrow would dawn brighter . . .

V picked Evey up, tossing her over his shoulder and stalking off into his bedroom, hearing her laughing protests. "Compromise is done." He gently tossed her upon the bed. "Now about that tempting of fate . . ."

Her giggle became muffled as he closed his door.

* * *

Deep in the darkness of night, the clock ticking away comfortingly, V awoke with a start, breathing heavily. Evey's hands upon his chest calmed him, her kiss to his chin comforting. Her murmur was sleep-heavy. "What is it? Another nightmare?"

He pulled her into a fierce embrace, one that had such the tender touch upon it. "No."

The younger woman yawned widely, wriggling to get even closer to his warm skin.

"I dreamed . . . and in dreaming, remembered."

"Are you going to talk in circles or get to the point?"

"Mm. You're not very happy when awoken sharply."

"Find me one human who is," she retorted, but the severe tone was ruined when she yawned at the end of her sentence. "What did you remember?"

"My name."

Evey leaned up over his face, her own lit softly by a candle that always burned in their now-shared room. "Te–"

A chiming ring cut her off, and she groaned, picking the phone up. "Evey Hammond."

"It's Dominic. We've got a situation, level two."

She sighed, falling limp against the silken pillows that she had shocked V with, which had replaced his wearing-thin Egyptian cotton sheets. The silk was sometimes easier upon his skin, and if he was uncomfortable at any time, it was nothing for Evey to get herself up and help him change the sheets. She rubbed at her forehead. "Seven months into the New Era, and we still have these level twos. Why did you have to call me in the middle of the night?"

"It isn't as if you were actually sleeping."

"Dom, get to the point."

"Well . . . You know that the former United States has stopped their Second Civil War. The Northern states have their leader, and . . . well . . . she's come here, and is demanding to see _our_ leader."

"Which we still haven't decided upon, and are in the process of electing."

"Precisely."

"Bollocks."

"My sentiments exactly," Finch's voice broke in. She was obviously upon speaker-phone in their joint office. "Evey, we need you to represent England again."

"And if we never decide upon a leader? You promised me that Austrailia was the last one."

"The Moot will decide themselves upon one sooner or later. You know that you're among those in consideration. They still feel that you have the right ideals to deal with these kind of situations in this rather precarious and shifting time," Dominic said, a smile clearly evident upon his face. He was enjoying her discomfort.

Bugger him. Evey turned the speaker upon her phone on as well, setting it upon the pillow between herself and V. "Well, Germany isn't going to have a good time of accepting another candidate anytime soon after that wonderful job you said I did with winning them over with promises not to become another fascist state."

"I'm afraid that we simply don't have a choice, Evey," Finch replied in his deliberate way of speaking.

"Tell _me_ that," V said in a feigned freshly-awoken voice. "I'm not in the mood to lose my personal bedside fire for the third time in a week. Find someone else."

"You, perhaps?" Dominic shot back.

"I recall that you nearly reviewed your lunch upon my boots the last time we met."

"V!" Evey rebuked, trying not to laugh. Dominic had walked in with Finch, who was used to seeing V's hands as he either cooked for Evey or preformed some other task, usually reviewing papers or the like. Evey could burn a salad rather easily and without much encouragement. Besides. Cooking was something that V took pride in doing.

Dominic had never seen the result of severe burns that had scarred over without much medical attention. He had very nearly puked with gusto upon V's freshly-polished boots. Evey still found the mental image highly amusing.

"Oh, very well." V sighed. "How long must I give Evey up to you two?"

"Not longer than past noon."

"Twelve hours." V pulled Evey into an embrace, making sure to make a lot of noise while doing so. "Sadists."

Dominic spluttered, but Finch said, "I'll stall and tell them that you can't be reached. I'll have a car waiting for you at nine, if that's acceptable to you both."

V opened his mouth to say something, but found it blocked by Evey, who maliciously kissed him rather loudly before answering Finch. "Mm. Of course. See you at nine, Inspector." She turned the phone off and tossed it back upon the side table.

V's hands pulled her back against himself again, kissing her jaw. "Don't think you can get away _that_ easily from me, pet." He curled up around her, pillowing her head upon one arm, the other gently stroking her abdomen. "Not after that wonderful kiss."

Evey let him hold her, feeling safe and secure in his arms. "You said that you remembered your name."

"Yes. Can I ask you something?"

"Of course."

"Can we name our son by this name when he's born?"

"Whose name was it?"

"My father's as well."

"Then our daughter will be named Selina, after my mother."

"Without a doubt," V whispered, his hand pushing through hair that was now long enough for most to be pulled back into a small ponytail.

"Before you tell me the name, V . . ."

"It's our anniversary."

"The fifth of November. Guy Fawke's Day."

"Two years."

"I love you."

"I . . . I love you, Evey."

She bit her lip, but the tears fell anyway. He felt a great amount of affection for her, she knew, but he had never spoken that he loved her . . . V fought within his own soul to recover those exhilarating emotions that fall under the name of love.

Turning her around, careful of her still-small twin pregnancy, V kissed her tears away, his eyes closed, his voice a whisper. "I once went by the name–"

And that infernal phone rang again.

The couple glared at the phone, and Evey reached behind herself to check who it was . . . then grinned, whispering, "Dominic again . . . shall we?"

V only snickered, whispering her name softly just as Evey turned the phone on. Ah, the joys of being free.

Freedom!


	2. Chapter II

Vivified: a Verbose Vignette  
By: Sinead

Chapter Two

The date was the fifth of November, nearly the sixth. The smoke from Parliament was already rising, the fireworks still boomed overhead . . . Evey wasn't caring about watching the smoke from the former buildings blemishing the otherwise clear midnight skies. She wasn't going to be found among thrill-seekers who were looking to get a brick, or a piece of glass, so that it could be held as an heirloom for the great-grandchildren to point at and ask, "Grannie, Grampie, wha's tha'?"

In which the fortunate elder would reply, "That, my darlin', is from the night we became free. Come, bring a new cuppa tea for my old bones; I have a story to tell you . . ."

No, Evey Hammond was half-dragging the man she loved into the Shadow Gallery, fortunately helped by Eric Finch and Dominic Stone, the former who had somehow found her pressing hands against V's wounds, tying bandages around his arms, slowing the flow of blood as best as she could.

The moment that Inspector Finch had come through to her talking, hearing her side of things as she moved quickly to save the life of the terrorist . . . upon hearing a miniature Big Ben tolling the half hour from somewhere within the train . . . she got up, ran to the lever, saw the domino . . .

Cried.

Pushed the lever down, leaving a bloody handprint behind.

Running back through blurry vision, she kissed the forehead of the mask. "V, it's off."

"I wish you would let me die, Evey . . ."

"Bollocks."

"Dammit, knew you would disagree . . ."

Finch was glaring between the two of them. "Why should I be helping you, now?"

"Because he's the one reason why we've gotten this far," Evey snarled back at the man, sharp and, at the moment, quite as lethal as the blades V normally sported. His empty dagger-belt was the first thing she had taken off, using it to wrap around one leg with a rather large and nasty hole in it, one that she had patched up first. "Look, we've got to get him back to where there are medical supplies."

"I suppose . . ." Finch sighed, then rubbed at his face with the back of one hand. Sniffing mightily, he sighed, wiping his hand off enough upon his pant leg to pull out his phone. "But we're going to need someone else to help us. He's my partner . . . you can trust him."

"What . . . makes you think . . . that we trust _you_?" the halting, venomous question hissed forth from the mask.

"Have I given you any reason not to?"

"V, stop being difficult," the woman admonished softly, bloody fingers tying another bandage into place. Thank God for his thickly woven, double-lined cape. And the fact that she had begun to carry even a simple pocket-knife around at V's behest. He had no weaponry left upon him, and she didn't think that he was going to magically produce a dagger from a hidden pocket. She had even checked his boots, and he didn't even have a throwing knife or a stiletto within them.

"Mff . . . very well."

And so with the help of the younger detective, the very one whom she had maced, they rested V upon her bed, and then the men went in search of a medical kit. V gave Evey instructions to where one was, and as Dominic stood transfixed beneath an epic painting that Evey no longer noticed, she ran right under his nose, skidding around a corner and . . . facing the door that had led into the Larkhill exhibit.

"_V, your sense of humor is severely lacking!"_ she roared over her shoulder, slamming the door open and continuing down the bleak halls. Within a minute, her hand was upon a true field medical kit, and she was running back under Dominic's nose again.

This time, he pointed to her in sudden recognition, but couldn't get any words out as Finch shook his shoulder. "Dom, I need you to go and keep tabs on what's going on up there."

"But Inspector–"

Finch grabbed the younger man's collar. "They might tolerate _me_, Dom, but I was pressing my luck when I asked for you to help us bring V down into where he could recover. I knew that the moment that I had asked. Get topside and keep me informed."

"But _Inspector_–"

"Do you understand me."

"Well, yes, Inspector, but–"

"But _what_."

Dominic sighed, defeated by his commanding officer's logic and steadfast insistence that he be the eyes aboveground. Looking back up at Finch, he then asked, "Should I bring breakfast down here, then, or leave it somewhere?"

Thinking upon this, Finch replied, "Call me in a few hours, and I'll see."

"Yes, Inspector."

"Get moving."

Dominic was out the door and up the stairs with the snap of his tan trenchcoat against his legs. He didn't like being underground one bit, and that entire place creeped him out almost as badly as the St. Mary's mausoleum.

Finch made sure that his subordinate was up the stairs enough not to come back down, then walked through the first door, then paused at the ajar one, hearing scissors upon fabric, and the gasp of pain. He brushed his knuckles against the door instead of knocking, knowing that it would be heard. Evey's voice replied softly, "Yes?"

"Did . . . Did you need assistance?"

"Pain . . . Evey, ouch, that– _Evey_!"

"V, it's a bloody bullet wound! I'm well aware that it's going to hurt with me pulling the farking bullet out!"

Finch hadn't heard any muffles upon that voice at all . . . the mask was off. He cleared his throat, and V growled something low out. Evey translated, "Only if you don't puke and have something to dull the pain." She added on, "There's a good amount of strong whiskey down near the Valerie shrine, in the bottom of a black china cabinet."

"No alcohol!" V gasped out. "Dammit, Evey . . ."

"V, stop wiggling, I almost have it."

Finch would have smiled at the verbal sparring had it been any other time, but he asked, "Did you want me to get some true painkillers, then? I have a doctor friend . . ."

"Yes!" they chorused. V's voice was first heard after that. "Fast! Augh . . ." Finch heard pained panting from the other side of the door, "Lift . . . behind the door painted on the wall . . . by the Egyptian Goddess . . . oh . . . what was her name . . ."

"Isis," Evey replied. "V, shut up and bite on this so you don't break a tooth. I've still got to get that bullet out of you."

Finch took off towards the statue he had seen of the Egyptian deity, found the lift, called the doctor's mobile phone, and fashioned a meeting. He was glad that his friend was still out partying as it were, and smiled as he looked up at the fireworks that were now being set off carefully by quit possibly the army itself.

.v.V.v.

Evey pulled the bullet out of his skin, feeling his hand grip her arm the moment that she had pulled it clear. He had put the mask over his face again, hiding his pain from her, and she let him. She had cut away the sleeve on his right arm, as his left hadn't been hit more than once. She pushed his weakened hand down, then pulled the top of the mask down so that she could see his pain-tortured eyes. Her voice was soft as she began to croon against the bridge of his nose, "You'd better come, come-come, come-come, to me . . . You'd better run, run-run, run-run to me . . ."

"Cat Power."

"Yes . . . it's all right . . . Hush, now."

"I . . . I might want some of that whiskey, now."

"Not if you're going to have professional pain killers."

He bit back a groan of pain as she kissed his bruised forehead. The steel mask had deflected any head-shots, but it had bruised the proud forehead and the aristocratic cheeks. Evey whispered, "Will you let Finch help?"

"Yes," he whispered hoarsely.

.v.V.v.

After two more hours of patching an increasingly more abstract and drugged V back together again, Evey was beyond tired. Eric Finch understood this, but didn't suggest anything to her. He looked at the books around him, once they were done and V was rambling to himself under his mask about some old movie and how wonderful it had been. The older man saw titles that he had never gotten the chance to read before they had been banned. "'Nineteen-Eighty-Four'? 'Catcher in the Rye'? 'Animal Farm' and 'The Color Purple' . . . By God, all these have once been considered classics . . ."

Evey tried to hide a yawn. The extra sheets that she had put upon the bed were bloodied and hopefully saved the other sheets beneath them. She tugged on the rolled-up sleeve of the detective. "Can you help me with this? I need to get these dirty sheets off . . ."

"Right." He carefully hooked his finally-clean hands under V's armpits, hefting him up enough that Evey could pull three layers of sheets off of the bed, seeing that the quilt had been affected. Finch winced at seeing that, but Evey just pulled that one off as well, pushing it aside with all the other dirtied linens. She pulled the clean bedsheets down, then nodded to Finch, who carefully laid V back down, noting that he had finally silenced.

Evey pulled the sheets back up around his chin, then picked the bloody sheets and one quilt up. "Inspector, if you could please follow me?"

He turned, saying, "You don't trust me alone with him."

"Not yet."

"I don't see why."

"You don't have to," she replied after a pause, opening a door into the laundry room with her foot and then opening a washer door with her knee, thankful that the door was upon the front of the machine and not the top. The sheets were shoved into the large barrel, the door swung and sealed shut, and the buttons pressed for the setting she had come to know would pull blood from cloth. After all, she had done this many times before when V had either not been as clean as he usually was, or had the odd wound inflicted upon him. Turning, she went into the washroom to clean her arms and face off. Finch followed her there. Drying off, she asked, "How long are you planning to stay down here?"

"Until he's awake and lucid enough to answer questions."

"I fear that he will only give you cheek."

"He trusts _you_, though."

Evey gave him a look of complete disgust. "If you think that I will be the mouthpiece for your questions, you are sorely wrong."

"I'm not saying that," the inspector said patiently. He took his turn at the washbasin. "What I'm saying is that eventually, he might come to trust me. I just want to understand him and his motives."

Evey tried her very hardest not to retort to that sharply. She was tired, worried, and had been concentrating upon V's survival for the last three hours, and it had drained her considerably. But somehow, her skepticism was clear to Finch. The man looked at her. "How long did it take for him to trust _you_?"

"What level of trust are you asking about?"

"To show you his face."

"It took him seven months to trust me enough to show me all of what he kept here, all his treasures, all the doors, all the exits." That had been just after she had recovered from the ordeal with the false Larkhill. And she had left . . . only to come back a month and a half later, realizing just how lonely she was.

"And what of his literal face?"

"In darkness, which hid most of the scars, ten months. To see it every day in the light, almost eleven." She looked square into Finch's eyes. "Don't think that you're going to get anywhere near that kind of comfort level with him. I'm telling you, Inspector, that it took me that long only because I had lived with him of my own volition. And that I had also become friends with him, understanding him as no other has in over a decade."

As Evey walked away from the washbasin, Eric Finch took her place. He rubbed at his face, feeling the warm water relax some part of the skin there . . . and he sighed. "I hope that a professional trust can lie between us, then." Patting his face dry, he asked, "Do you have a coffee machine here?"

"And real coffee, not the diluted version you must be still drinking," Evey said with a proud smirk. "And real cream, real butter, real eggs, and imported sugar."

"But . . ."

"V has made it part of his work to supply us with true food, not just the rations that everyone has to deal with. I'm assuming that will change, soon."

"Indeed," came the sadly-smiled reply. "Would you like coffee, then?"

"No," she replied softly, rubbing her arms wearily. "I'm going to sleep for a while."

"Where will you be, so that if he wakes up I can call you?" Finch asked, indicating the room of books with his thumb. "His room is a bit out of the way, and I wanted to keep watch in case someone else might have made the same connections that I had."

The ghost of a smile lit the woman's face, and her eyes softened. "I will know before you will when he awakens. Why do you think I had him brought to that room?"

Realization dawned upon Finch, and he nodded at the logic as they started moving towards the main hall and the kitchen. "Why didn't you have us put him into his room, then?"

She answered him with a question, an odd blush riding her cheeks. "Would you rather wake up in a cold hospital room or the room of a close friend if you were sick? Knowing that they would be there and waiting for you to wake up, with cool cloths to rest upon a forehead and a comforting hand to hold?"

"I see your point." Finch smiled and they paused at the kitchen. "But, out of curiosity . . . have you been in that position yourself?"

"Yes, twice, since I came here. Once of somehow catching a cold, the other . . ." After he had tortured her . . . no, she couldn't say that. Never could she say that. "The other after I had been through a horrible experience, seen the death of a close, close friend, and as a result, went into a form of shock." Shaking her head, she digressed. "I'm going to sit beside him, now. Please knock if you need something."

As Evey was turning away, Finch called out after her, "Dominic might bring breakfast back with him. Should he come down here with it or should I meet him somewhere to pick it up?"

Thinking as V would, Evey came up with the appropriate reply. "Meet him somewhere. And hope that he forgets his way down here."

"He's hopeless with directions. Reckless driver, too."

"Good. V might be a touch grumpy with the fact that two people have found the Gallery in one day," Evey said with a smile. "Good night, Inspector."

Checking his wristwatch, Finch corrected, "Good morning. It's almost four."

"Already?" her voice echoed back to him. "Well . . . if he calls about what to bring, ask him to make sure that we can warm it up when we're more awake. And to bring soup makings for chicken noodle and vegetable soup . . . and tomato soup and beef soup . . ."

Finch smiled to himself as she gave herself over to thinking about V again. He knew that the two had gotten to be more than accomplices, although he never knew how _that_ had happened. All he knew about them he had gotten from surveillance cameras, the ones of them a year ago in the alleys and at the Jordan Tower incident. Nothing more. But now, seeing how they hadn't even had to speak for someone to move or hold an arm just _so_ . . . seeing how Evey had responded to even a tilt of the head, a set of a single shoulder, the crook of a finger . . . Finch had to wonder how they had gotten to know each other so intimately, and how that trust between them had become so concrete.

And speaking of intimacy, Evey was a pretty girl, and V . . . well . . . obviously a man. Even though Evey was careful to keep such sights under sheets and discreetly so, but even then . . . could they have . . . ?

Finch shook his head, smiling to himself. Nah. Not in a million years. They were too different, and their ages were too far apart. Not to mention that there was the whole dark plotting of the vigilante, which didn't bode well for any potential relationships.

Satisfied with his conclusions and in a strange way, relieved that they couldn't've been banging, he reached for the coffee carafe, pulling it out and filling it with water.

.v.V.v.

Evey carefully climbed into bed beside V, laying upon the two other blankets she had placed over him to keep him warm. The moment she pillowed her head upon her arm, his mask turned to her in the semi-gloom. She had opted to keep the door open a slit, just so that she could see shadows in the hallway. So far there had been none, but she expected one to flit by. Finch made a living out of his curiosity, and she knew he was wondering how well they knew each other.

Smiling, she traced the smile and the mustache of the mask. "May I?"

"Of course."

Pulling it free with careful movements, Evey rested her fingers along a nose that had actually been more complete than she had first thought. The fact that it had been broken many times had accounted for her first thought that most of it had been burned off in the fire. After reaching over to a glass upon the side table, her cool fingers ran equally-cool water over his pockmarked brow, so that she could blow a soft breath of air across the surface of his skin, causing him to sigh and relax marginally. "V?"

"Yes?"

"How much of that muttering was drug-induced?"

"About half of it."

"How are you feeling?"

"Like I had after drinking myself silly a few months back."

"Already?"

"Mm. My body somehow negates the narcotic side of painkillers. Finch was looking for my rambling as proof that I wasn't feeling any more pain. You knew that I wasn't because I stopped flinching."

"So you're perfectly sober."

"Yes. Save for a headache."

"And only alcohol affects you."

"Somewhat. Unless I find it imperative to drink myself into a stupor."

"How you managed that while still keeping your mask on is still a wonder to me."

"It's called slight-of-hand, my dear."

"You should sleep."

"As should you." With a deep sigh, V winced as he pulled his left arm out from under the covers, brushing his shaking fingers along her jaw. His voice was a breathy whisper. "Thank you."

"You would have done the same and more for me," Evey replied in the same tone, moving closer so that she could crawl under some of the covers, leaving one sheet between them. "You're chilled. Get your arm back under the sheet and hold me, you goose."

"Goose?"

"Mm-hm."

"Interesting term, Evey."

"Sleep, will you?"

"Mask . . ." V trailed off, looking around for it as frantically as his body would allow him to.

Evey pointed to above his head, and he looked in the one direction he hadn't tried yet. It was resting upon a book above his head, perfectly in reach of his left arm. "Ah. Thank you."

"V?" He was about to reply when her soft lips were upon his own. Evey spoke softly. "Shut up. Sleep. We can talk more tomorrow."

He pulled her back down again, and she arranged herself against his side, careful of all his wounds, and most careful about the one she couldn't see: his heart.

Standing upon the other side of the door, Finch merely blinked . . . then shrugged, going back to his coffee. Looks like his instincts were wrong on this account. Those two were indeed closer than just close friends, but how could that have happened? Somehow, he didn't quite wish to know, as it was clearly something so private and something in such a tender, tentative stage that for him to comment upon it would be a grave blow upon both ego and self-esteem of both parties.

He poured his coffee and sat to await Dominic's inevitable call. Upon thinking of the younger man, who had undoubtedly taken a notice of the Hammond girl, Eric Finch allowed himself a chuckle while he pulled a book off of a shelf, noting that it was a Shakespeare . . . _Macbeth_? Interesting, and he hadn't read that since he was in primary school.

No, he wouldn't tell Dominic that they were involved. It would prove to be amusement for those who needed it the most: V and his lovely Evey. They needed smiles right now, true smiles and not the cynical, mocking smile that the Guy Fawkes mask always wore.

Looking back at the bookshelf, he saw the title _Twelfth_ _Night_ next to the hole where _Macbeth_ had rested . . . odd. The titles were in alphabetical order by author, and within that author, alphabetical by title. Why would _Macbeth_ and _Twelfth Night_ be so close together? _And_ that they had been at the very beginning of Shakespeare's work? Very odd. Why would that be so necessary? Were they favorites?

After a bit more of pondering, looking to see if there was any other pattern within the books, Finch shook his head, going to the coffee machine to pour his coffee. As he sat with the book, turning each page carefully, his phone rang . . . and he picked it up, knowing that Dominic had found breakfast.

Now to send the boy out on another scavenger hunt.

This time, for soup makings.


	3. Chapter III

Vivified: a Verbose Vignette  
By: Sinead

Chapter Three

.v.V.v.

V awoke with a start, which set him about gasping in renewed pain from his gunshot wounds of the day before. Everything came back in a blurry rush. Evey's help in preparing the explosive-lined train. Her eyes watering as he kissed her the morning of, before he put his mask on . . . and kept it on. He couldn't face her knowing that there was still a high possibility of his dying.

When he could focus his eyes correctly again, he noticed that Evey was still sound asleep by his side, breathing deeply and peacefully. He carefully moved his head to kiss her forehead, letting his nose breathe in the scent of her skin and the shampoo she used upon her barely-inch-long hair. But then it came across a salty smell . . . cooking?

"Evey?"

She shifted, and V repeated her name in a soft and meaningful whisper. Finally, with a bleary gaze, she replied, "Mm?"

"Did Finch stay here last night?"

"Nn . . . yeah." Evey sat up, yawning, her very-short curls a lovable mess.

"Did that younger man come back?"

"No, and I requested that he didn't."

V sighed and relaxed upon the bed again, feeling every wound pain him each in a unique new way. "Thank you. I don't like him."

"Because he hit me?" Evey very slowly moved out of the bed to grab and put on a large cardigan that V had left hanging in one of his closets. It was black, matching the rest of his wardrobe, but it was an Irish Fisherman's knit, the likes of which had long since been banned from being viewed upon England's streets.

"Well . . . that too," V admitted, smiling as she was lost within the folds of the worn sweater that he had often used before she had come to live with him. He knew that it smelled of him, and Evey enjoyed that smell . . . which he, oddly, could never pick up.

"Finch assured me that he couldn't find his way out of a paper bag."

"Interesting. Is he making breakfast?"

"I'm assuming so. I hope that it's not eggs in the basket, though. I'll only eat yours."

"Made with all of what I can put into it, my dear."

Evey leaned low to brush his forehead with another kiss. "Let me see what he's burning, and then I'll come back to feed you some painkillers with a light breakfast."

"Many thanks."

She waved that off, leaving the room and keeping the door only a crack open so that it remained in a delightful twilight. Walking into the kitchen, she saw that everything had been set up, cooked, and waiting with steam still rising upon plates kept upon what Evey would assume to be a still-warm stove. One had scrambled eggs, bacon, and home fries. Hence the salty, onion-like smell. The other was a soup, quite possibly tomato with green flecks? Ah, oregano. Another spice that Evey almost forgot that existed.

Finch was sitting with his head bowed over one of the old volumes that V so fondly collected, his food finished and a good foot away from the old book. As Evey watched, he turned a page with a tender, careful movement that spoke more of how much he truly appreciated the formerly-banned materials. She much doubted that they would be banned for any longer than they had to. The inspector looked up, then indicated the still-full plates. "Dominic couldn't find any place that would be able to make breakfast foods that would be open this morning, so he just got the supplies."

Picking what had to be her plate up, she sat and ate her food with quick bites. "What of how things are going on topside?"

"Well . . . see for yourself." He turned the TV on with the remote that had been resting upon the table beside the book, and the images on the screen showed not riots and looting . . . but scenes of peaceful people, masks pushed up onto the tops of their heads, capes held tightly around their sides while they watched the smoldering ruins of Parliament, or the sunrise, or the restless movements of the troops while they stood where they had been told to. There were no more orders to be given them from a higher-up.

V's weary voice spoke from the doorway as he saw this. "It seems that they need someone to tell them what to do."

"They're soldiers, V," Evey replied to the still-masked-and-wigged man, a blanket held around his neck and shoulders, all skin carefully and skillfully hidden. She stood and rested an arm around the back of his waist, keeping it carefully casual, and made sure that he was aware that the specific stance she had taken would help support him. "Rest. I'll get you the soup that was prepared."

"No real food?" he appealed as he subtly leaned upon Evey's shoulder, catching his breath. She helped him to the couch, setting him in a reclining position, tucking the blanket around his sides and picking up another one to wrap around that previous one, covering his feet to keep them warm.

"Gee. And watch you gleefully review it over your marble floors after you move the wrong way and pain turns your stomach? No thanks."

V saw the images being reported by the BTN, and asked, "So the Mouth still speaks, mm?"

Finch nodded, even though he knew V wouldn't be able to turn to see it. "Dascomb says that it's his job to report the news. They found Sutler and Creedy."

"When?"

"Only an hour ago. Put it on the air, too. People wanted proof."

"So what does this mean to us, now?" Evey asked after a pause. "What are we going to do?"

V angled his head upwards a bit to look at her. But it was Finch who replied, "We need someone who can appeal to the public and ask for peace while we set up a new government. Someone who can become the face of the new era, fresh, previously unknown to the public."

"Or . . . virtually unknown." V looked away from Evey's face and towards the screen again.

She just looked at the two men, snorted, and crossed her arms. "I'm not stupid. V, I know _your_ reasons why I should help rebuild, but Inspector Finch?"

"You've been involved with the actual Revolution," he replied, standing to walk to the back of the couch, looking at the young woman for a moment before diverting his gaze to look at the television screen. "You know both sides of what had been a subtle conflict. You were associated with V, you were labeled his accomplice, but I am still curious how the two of you truly came to be allies. And it was Norsefire who took your parents, made you an orphan. People will relate to you because of it. There was St. Mary's, which still more people will empathize with."

"How do you know about that?" Evey hissed while V slowly turned his head to look at the inspector.

He assumed that V was quite possibly glaring at him, but paid that no mind as he replied, "We had to research your background in order to figure out how you and V were connected. We never could quite figure out how."

"That story may be told at a later date," V replied icily.

Yeap. He was glaring at Finch, and the man had to be glad that the mask kept it from view. From the tone of his voice, V was _not_ a very happy man that Evey's past had been brought up. Sighing, Eric shook his head. "I am merely stating truths. The public would most likely take to Evey as an interim leader while she helps us set things up. If . . . that is, if you are not opposed to it."

V's mask turned back towards Evey, but she was watching the television again. Seeing the peaceful demonstrations. There was not one shot that had destruction within it. Perhaps watching Parliament blow sky-high was enough for one day . . . hopefully, for a year. For more than a year. Evey started to think both sides of this over. She did _not_ want to become a public figure, as she had seen what good becoming a public figure could entail; hatred of leadership in general. She did not want to become a public figurehead of any movement.

She only wanted to be Evey Hammond . . . and she only wanted to be defined by how V saw her. He was everything to her. His motives were her own for the last year . . . and now . . . now what? Finding herself staring at the Guy Fawkes mask, she whispered, "This isn't something you can ask of me lightly, Inspector."

"Things will be happening quickly. Remnants of Norsefire will most undoubtedly rise back up to try to take control again," Finch retorted in a rapid-fire pace, watching her face flit from one emotion and thought-process to the next.

"But you cannot assume that I will have to take up–"

"Evey," the metallic whisper came forth from the injured man seated upon the couch. He sighed. "Evey, just think upon this for a moment. You cannot assume to take this responsibility on in one day of contemplation. The good inspector is most likely just thinking too fast, which in other times is a magnificent trait–"

"Thank you," Finch said, knowing that complements came all too rarely from the former terrorist. Or _was_ he a terrorist?

"–however, that quick thinking is not always the best form of thought-process when formulating long-term plans, Mr. Finch. We are only upon the first day of the new era; please try not to terrify my dear Evey into a position which she most assuredly will not commit to under pressure."

With that, V turned his mask most firmly upon the screen showing Dascomb himself standing at the edge of Trafalgar Square, which was still blackened with the forms of V-costumed revelers. They were not drinking, they were not throwing Molotov cocktails at the soldiers, or at property. They were singing old tunes. So many old and formerly-banned songs that it was disconcerting to hear, and yet . . . more musical and sweet than any of Mozart's, or Beethoven's, or Handel's masterpieces.

This was the sight and sound of freedom being reborn anew, breaking forth with a vengeance that would cause the world to tremble . . . and to look to their own governments.

.v.V.v.

"What would he want me to do?" Evey asked quietly as she helped V with his warmed soup. Finch had gone to the topside, presumably to set some plans into motion concerning his police and investigational force.

"I'm not sure," V replied, doing his very best not to dribble when Evey spooned him the broth. That would lead to her unending amusement and his ignominy. He really was too tired to care about much, however, when around Evey, he wanted to be his very best. That he wasn't able to protect her right now was a very bad situation that he found himself in.

As she pulled the tablespoon away, she whispered, "What if Finch affirms that you had offed Sutler and Creedy?"

"I doubt that it matters much, dear Evey," the reply came. Casting his eyes downward, V sniffed twice, hoping that his nose wasn't going to start bleeding again, then whispered, "The public already knows that it is me."

"But what if someone wants to get rid of you for it?"

"Then I will face him and–"

"No. You will not. V, I absolutely forbid it."

"Evey!"

She placed the bowl down upon the coffee table, and crossed her arms over her chest. Her face was hard and unyielding. "V, you are in _no_ position to refuse. This is a situation where you will take the _healthy_ way out and let the _proper_ authorities take care of it."

"But others would be killed for it, Evey. I cannot allow someone to stand in for me and be killed for me."

"V, enough."

"But Evey–"

"No, I said enough. If they wish to defend you and die defending you, then you _have_ to allow it."

His face was beginning to turn a slightly deeper shade of red, which Evey had found on the previous months to mean that he was furious. "I will _not_ allow that!"

"Good. Now you realize what _I_ had to feel when you said that you were going to face Sutler and Creedy. You understand how much I wanted to knock you out, hide you somewhere, and have someone take care of him for us."

The scarred man deflated instantly, and his mouth opened to comment, but then shut again. After a few more minutes of silence, he whispered, "Evey, you cannot be good for my health."

"Imagine adding a child to the scene."

"Is that something I should have ignored?" Finch's voice said from the doorway. From that angle, he couldn't see V's face. It was a small blessing.

V's back stiffened, but Evey casually picked his mask up and placed it upon his face, tying it in place with the same careless manner, as if it didn't matter that Finch nearly saw V's face. She rested her hand upon V's shoulder, smiling at the inspector. "It's an old tease, and an inside joke, inspector."

"Sorry, didn't mean to intrude."

"Might as well come all the way in, seeing as you're already here," V replied snarkily.

"V, stop it. He offered an apology."

V only hitched the blanket up around his neck a bit more, never minding that it was bandaged from a passing wound. He didn't like anyone but himself and Evey in his home.

Finch stood to once side, seeing the set of V's head, able to see that it was an angry pose. He decided that it would be beneficial to make this as short as possible. "Things are going all right topside. However, they want to see you, V."

The mask slowly turned towards the other man.

Evey asked the question. "Why?"

"He was the one who called them out. V, you're the reason why we're free from Norsefire."

.v.V.v.

Dascomb stared at Finch in total and complete shock. "You've _met_ him?"

"And spoken with him, yes. He's in no condition to be doing much right now. He had knives; Creedy's men had guns."

"Will he die?"

"No."

Roger Dascomb turned and walked a few paces in his office. With a sigh, he sat upon the side of his desk and looked up at the inspector. "The people want to _see_ him. They're demanding him. Whenever there's a broadcast, I'm watching the public television screens. Everyone stops to wait and see if Codename V will appear. Every mention of him is greeted with the crowds leaning forward, wanting to commit every comment, every mention of him to their memory."

Thinking upon this for a long while, Finch looked up at Dascomb, his voice low. "Have you mentioned the Hammond girl?"

"Here and there . . . why?"

Finch pulled his phone out of his pocket, dialing the number of his spare mobile phone. Evey picked up. "Hello?"

"If he cannot be on air, what of the Hammond girl?" Finch waited for the response.

It came after a sigh, but her voice was smiling lightly. "He won't like it, but I'll do it."

"Thanks."

They hung up without any further words, and the older man said, "You'll have Evey Hammond to interview."

"Was that _her_?!"

"Yes."

"Is she _really_ connected with V?"

"You'll just have to wait and see."

.v.V.v.

"England, we thank you for your great amount of patience during this tumultuous time. I am Roger Dascomb, the head of the BTN. With me today is _not_ Codename V, however, this amazing individual has been televised during the last days of Norsefire." He paused, keeping his face serene and guarded, then spoke again. "I have with me today Evey Hammond." Turning, he smiled reassuringly to the young woman who dressed in the navy and dark blue colors that he had, in his week of meeting with her, never seen her choose outside of for her wardrobe. "Good morning, Miss Hammond."

"Mister Dascomb, I thank you for contacting me." She was calm, collected, smooth, cool, and without a doubt _exactly_ what the public needed to see and hear after the chaos that had been beginning to settle upon the streets.

"It was my pleasure. Now, the public have been calling in questions about the how and why you are associated with Norsefire's downfall."

"Well, I'm not at a full liberty to speak of all the details, however, I _can_ tell you a few things, I suppose." That caught him off-guard, and she smiled, saying, "Should you start with the questions _you_ prepared, or the questions that England has?"

"The public, of course!" He shuffled through his papers, then pulled up a few sheets. "Ah, we sorted these through with the most pertinent questions near the top." He read the first question. "Dorris from Southend-on-Sea asks the one that most people have sent in to us: Were or are you involved with the 'terrorist,' Codename V?"

Evey smiled, and nodded. "Yes. He and I worked together intensively towards the end."

"Towards the end? He hasn't–"

"Oh, no, no!" Evey exclaimed. She smiled a little, clarifying, "Towards the end of Norsefire. He lives, if wounded."

"That leads me to the next popular question: Was he the one who killed the Chancellor?"

"Yes."

The bluntness of her answer again left Dascomb grasping at straws again. But he recovered rather quickly, oddly unsettled and unused to the feeling. "Were you there?"

"No. He wouldn't let me." Shrugging, she appended, "Not when he knew that he needed one of us alive, and able to answer the questions that would surely arise."

"Such as the ones I just asked."

"Exactly."

They both paused, and Dascomb sat back a touch, the pose of his shoulders indicating that he now respected how she held herself and how she answered the questions without saying anything more than had to be said. Deep within, he knew that she had learned these traits from V. He also knew that she was just what this nation needed: a steady, strong young woman who knew the horrors of Norsefire, _lived_ through them, and rose above it. After all, once the "undesirables" had been "detained," all who had been left to dominate were the women.

"Before I ask you a few more questions about V, might I ask some about you, Miss Hammond?"

She thought upon this for a moment, then nodded once, allowing him. His voice was quick, if smooth. "From what the investigations about you have said, you have had several brushes with the Norsefire party during Chancellor Sutler's reign."

"Interesting label to call his terror-driven term of office."

"I quite agree, but I was asked to use that particular phrase." Nodding at his words, understanding that he had to show a truly neutral face to the audience, she indicated with leisure that he could continue. "It was understood that you were the elder of two siblings, and your unfortunate brother had once attended Saint Mary's."

"That's true."

"And is it also true that both of your parents were placed in detainment?"

"Again, that's true."

"What happened to you?"

"The 'Reclamation' project for the children of political activists." She paused, then continued. "At seventeen, I was released, deemed 'fit' for public, and went my way about trying _not_ to be noticed."

"If that is so, then how did you fall in with Codename V?"

Evey was just as quick with her own words. She had known that something like this would come up in her interview, and had discussed with V what to tell both Dascomb and the public. "Creedy's Fingermen had pinned me as I was making my way to a friend's house past curfew. I was in the wrong place at the wrong time. Somehow, and I've never gotten _how_ he was so close to me and the predicament I found myself in, but V was in the _right_ place at the _right_ time. He literally saved me from what would have been a brutal raping in the so-called name of justice, and asked for a favor from me in return."

"I do hope it can be spoken upon television," Dascomb interrupted, instantly wary.

Her face soured, and Evey continued. "As a result, I ended up standing upon one of the many roofs that Madame Justice of the Old Bailey had looked down upon. His favor that he asked of me was to stand beside him in the very first moments of November the Fifth, that day that everything had all started upon."

The Mouth's voice was quiet, repentant as he commented, "So that was you."

"Yes. Upon that day, V almost blew up the very tower that we are now sitting within. He didn't know I was within it, nor did anyone else other than Inspectors Eric Finch and Dominic Stone. They had visual evidence of my accompanying V to the rooftop the night before, and were looking for me for clues upon how to get to _him_."

"So it _was_ you, then." Dascombe smiled, nodded his head, and replied, "I knew that you were familiar, and I regret that I haven't been able to place you before now."

"Believe me, Mister Dascombe, it is _quite_ all right. This last year has been a busy and a rather life-changing one for all of us."

"I have another question, and this isn't upon either of the two lists. You speak about Codename V as if he were a close friend. You call him V as if he were indeed close to you. Can I ask if I'm right in assuming that you and he became acquaintances?"

"Yes, indeed you would. After Inspector Stone had knocked me out just over a year ago, V made the decision that to leave me behind would be to assist in my eventual death. It wasn't a burden he knew he could carry, so he brought me to his home. During the first months, it had felt as if I were imprisoned, however, he was kind to me, allowing me my space." Evey's face fell as she remembered her recent past. "Then I was asked to help ensnaring Bishop Lilliman. I did help . . . and I admit to it. He was an evil and very twisted man. But I ran from V, and went to Gordon Deitrich's house. I had often brought him tea while working here at the BTN, and we had a working friendship. Within two months, the Finger had caught up with me, even though I very, _very_ rarely walked outside his house, and never outside his garden." Her voice broke. "They killed him. I miss him. I truly loved him as a brother or father, and again, another whom I had loved was taken away by Norsefire." Gathering herself and clamping down upon emotions that she knew weren't going to obey her, Evey continued, skipping ahead, glossing over details that wouldn't have fit in with the public's vision. "Knowing that I couldn't survive, I changed. I changed my hair, how I viewed my surroundings, everything. And I came to the knowledge that I couldn't live without friends. I was lonely. And I wanted to change a very wrong vision of who and what England was."

"You went back to V."

"I went back to V," Evey confirmed. "Not only that, but when I went back to him, it was as equals. Between his mind and mine, we simplified plans so that they would survive and flourish."

"Parliament," Dascombe whispered.

"The masks," Evey added.

"You say that the man survived."

"Yes, and is recovering slowly. V lives. And if he had died, it would have been through _us_, the living face of England, that his dreams and aspirations taken from our former faces would have lived on through. Can you understand that?"

"Easily."

They fell silent for a moment, before Dascombe asked quietly, "Will you send my regards and well-wishes to him?"

"Tell him yourself; he's watching."

Facing the camera completely, Dascomb's face was sincere, quiet, even his own reporter's facade of self-righteousness and suave ability to overcome any odd circumstance shattered, dulled. This had not been what he expected. "V, upon behalf of those who have been wishing to ask you personally, thank you. Rest and recover; we will do our best to keep England in one piece until your return."

Evey smiled to herself, wondering what V would make of that. As Dascombe sat back, he looked at her. "Was that all right?"

"I believe so. One never knows with V. I doubt that I will ever be able to know what he thinks."

Looking at a clock, the man winced and sighed. "Unfortunately, I believe that is all we have time for . . . I apologize. I had wanted to ask a great many more questions, but . . ."

"I can come back. Possibly in a few days."

"Then I look forward to that greatly."

They signed off, the cameras shut down yet the soundstage remained silent. Evey Hammond stood, then looked around at the people watching her. Unexpectedly, someone near the back whistled and clapped, causing all the others in the room to catch on. Smiling shyly, Evey walked down among them, shaking hands and smiling, accepting their well-wishes, replying that she would pass them on to V.

And Dascombe watched her leave from his chair, his face perplexed, his mind upon two questions:

How well did Evey _really_ know V?

Would she ever tell him?


	4. Chapter IV

Vivified: a Verbose Vignette  
By: Sinead

_**Author's Note:**__ The line concerning V and explosions later on in this chapter is a reference to a story that I absolutely adore: "Foxhole Family" by Jinxeh. They wrote such a wonderful world that truly captured my attention, and never let it go once I had began to read. Thank you so much for a version of "V for Vendetta" that took my breath away just as suddenly as the movie itself had. I fell in love with V twice over through your wonderful and accurate rendition of his dramatis personae._

Chapter Four

Evey walked back into the Shadow Gallery and paused, feeling the atmosphere of the underground home before continuing on. From her first steps into the main living area, she knew that Finch was worried, and V was very silently furious and fuming. So she drew in a deep breath, relaxing herself completely, then walked around the corner as silently as the masked specter himself.

V was hardly the one to be fooled by his own tricks. The wigged-and-masked head spun to face her, but the black-clad body didn't move an inch. Finch looked harassed, and Evey smiled to him. "Thank you, Inspector. Mister Dascombe asked if he could impose upon your time . . . ?"

"I'll bet that it has to do with controlling our streets again," he muttered, picking his trench coat up and swinging it around his shoulders slowly, walking noisily to the lift. He truly did _not_ want to be here when all hell broke loose between the two. Evey didn't look to be the one with a violent temper . . . but she was as stubborn as they got. V, however, would be raising merry hell. Thank _God_ that they did not have neighbors.

Once both man and woman heard the lift begin its ascent, they looked back at each other. Evey didn't move from where she stood, waiting for his words. They came in a low tone. "You said too much."

"Did I?"

"Our meeting?"

"You _did_ save me. Unless you wish to recant . . ."

"Dammit, woman!" V sighed explosively, looking away. His anger was irrational, and it was an odd sensation to be so unfocused. When he had managed to get his emotions back under his control, he said quietly, "I thought that we had made an agreement."

"We did, and if you recall my words to Dascombe, I _kept_ my side of the agreement." Moving to sit upon the coffee table in front of the former terrorist, Evey reached out to take the leather-bound hand within her own. His right arm was still held immobile in a sling. "V, what's bothering you?"

He didn't answer, and the set of his shoulders indicated that he wasn't _going_ to answer. But of course the woman knew almost all of his nuances, almost all of his emotional and mental hang-ups. Evey rested his hand down upon his leg again, and reached up to pull the mask off, leaving the wig. She looked into his eyes, whispering, "Was it that you wanted to keep how we met a secret?"

"Evey, of course . . ." V's voice was regretful, tired, hurt.

"Why?"

"I . . ."



Silence fell, and her hands gently rubbed at his worry-lines, careful of the still-healing bruises. Closing his eyes, V let her, letting her care for him. After a short while, she whispered, "You wanted us to remain in mystery, didn't you?" Not about to let him interrupt, she added on, "And you wanted to be my private and very romantic hero, going without recognition for that simple act."

"How can you understand me so well?"

"You, yourself, gave me the means. I love you, V, and I thank you for all you've been able to show me and do for me. Let _me_ take care of _you_ now."

Sighing, he just opened his eyes and looked up at Evey, reaching up with his left arm to hook his hand around her neck, pulling her forehead to rest against his. They stayed there for a time longer than either would be able to measure. It was only the sound of the lift returning that caused them to slowly move apart. Evey helped V put his mask back on, then shifted her jacket so that she could reach the revolver Finch had issued to her. Her face hardened, listening to the footfalls that had left the lift. Within a flash, she had gone up to a corner, gun raised to chest-level. V smirked behind his mask, knowing exactly what she was doing.

Finch rounded the corner, walking _into_ the gun. He froze, shocked, then looked at Evey, who put her gun up and smirked lightly. "Never assume that it's who you think it is, Inspector Finch." Holstering her gun, she walked back to V and sat upon the couch, leaving him completely without a metaphorical leg to stand upon. After a moment, however, Evey waved him over to the lone chair in the living room.

He sat, then spoke slowly. "Turn the telly back on."

V reached over and pressed the button upon the remote. They caught the person mid-sentence. "–ief to see that someone so strong can help us rebuild England." The unfamiliar woman had been stopped upon the street, and in the background was the sound of Evey's interview being replayed.

The field reporter turned to the next person, a man in his mid-thirties. "And you?"

"I feel that she's telling the truth about V. He wanted to change England from what it had turned into, just like the rest of us. The only problem for _us_ was that we didn't have any idea how to organize ourselves, and _he_ did."

"Do you look forward to seeing him again?"

"I'm not sure."

"Why's that?"

The man smiled sadly. "I lost my daughter in the last few months. She was twelve, wearing his mask, spraypainting his sign upon the Unity posters. If V is going to reappear and cause more trouble, then no, I don't want to see him come back. But this _is_ the era he helped bring around."

"So you're saying that if he comes back and supports what he's started, then you'll support his reappearance?"

"Nasty circle you've painted, but yes."

The next five minutes were of other various bystanders. All but one said that they were looking forward to seeing Evey on the air again. _All_ said that they wanted to see V.

"Damn." V stood and limp-stalked to his dressing room alcove. Finch frowned, but Evey stood, holding her hand up to forestall any questions as she moved to follow the man she loved. Finch nodded, and turned the volume up a few notches, not wanting to intrude upon what could only end up being a private conversation.

Evey found V staring at the bullet-sprayed mask that Evey had hidden in this room. He didn't look up as she walked up beside him, her hand upon the small of his back. His voice was 

soft. "Why did you hide this?"

"How did you know I had hidden it?"

"Because when I woke up the morning after . . . it was a fresh mask. Only you could know where I had kept them, and where this one could be hidden."

"Yes, I hid it."

"Why?"

Evey willed herself not to cry, but it didn't stop the tears. "Because I didn't want to look upon it. Seeing the result of what you had done, seeing you so hurt that you weren't able to even take care of your own needs . . . It has been the worst thing that has happened to me since I had met you."

The mask slowly turned to Evey, and his voice was soft. "Gordon . . . ?"

"Including his death."

"Even . . . when . . ."

"Even when you had simulated Lark Hill."

Placing the pockmarked mask down upon his dresser table, V pulled Evey into a careful embrace, his left arm around her small shoulders, his right hand carefully upon her arm as she cried silently into his chest. "V, never _ever_ get yourself that hurt again . . . because if you do, _I'll_ finish you off myself."

"What a pleasure that would be," he teased, murmuring against her hair, his mask pushed up over his forehead. "Although it would have to be one I would have to forego." Kissing her forehead, he whispered, "It will be all right, I promise you."

"I know."

But Evey took her time in drying her tears, leaning against the still-healing chest softly. And then V smiled and pulled his mask completely off, kissing her forehead, her nose, and then whispered, "I might be able to . . . mm . . ."

"No. Not until You're back to fencing against the suit of armor and not losing too much of your breath," came the soft reply.

"Does blowing things up in my study count?"

Evey laughed lightly, then shook her head. "No, it doesn't." She kissed him lightly, then replaced his mask with a smile. "Go rest. I'll have dinner waiting for you."

"One last thing," came V's voice, muffled by the steel barrier between himself and the world.

"By all means."

"The next interview will have me beside you."

"I'm not going to be intimidated by you sitting there glowering."

"I intend not to make the same mistake that I made this evening."

"Which was?"

He began walking away, but said over his shoulder, "Assuming that you would answer things as I would."

.v.V.v.

"What do you feel should be addressed during this interview?" Dascombe asked, his voice at its most polite form. He was terrified of the man sitting in front of him, one arm held stiffly against his torso.

V's head tilted slightly, and Evey moved, catching his attention. She was sending him a 

glare, daring him to say something mean and uncalled for. He grinned behind his mask, then muttered, "Oh, the usual _blarney_, to be sure. Politics and the like."

"V!"

"Sorry, Evey, but I had to."

She just sighed again and shook her head. "Stop being so difficult."

"Ah, we _are_ going to be doing the interview live."

"As I well know, Mister Dascombe." V's mask tilted very slightly to one side, and his left hand turned palm-upward in the slightest of shrugs. "I fear that you will ask me all the questions that I do not wish to answer. Nevertheless, I will indeed go through with this interview. Might I ask one question?"

"Yes, yes of course."

"Did you advertise that I was going to be appearing in the show today?"

Blinking once, the reporter's lips quirked up on one side, and his voice was lowered to a chuckle. "Of course not. I have film crews all over the city to watch the rushes towards all the public television sets."

"And for what reason did you do that?"

"Documentary purposes of the change of the era, as well as to report upon the impact of your person upon all of England."

There was a knock upon the door. "Mister Dascombe! Miss Hammond! The studio is ready!"

The sharp click of heels walked off, causing Evey to look at their host sharply. "Did you tell _anyone_ that V was appearing upon the interview today?"

"Well . . . no."

After a moment of silence between them, Evey spluttered, laughing, while V allowed himself a good long chuckle while he stood carefully. Dascombe also stood, and he left the room while V held his hand out to Evey, helping her to her feet. With a smile, she moved to take her hand back, but the masked man tucked her hand within his elbow, escorting her to the door. Pausing before opening it, he stared at the handle for one moment. Evey whispered, "Are you sure about this?"

"No, but I need to face this at some point. It is . . . very different between now and the time before Norsefire had been brought down." He reached out and touched the handle before gripping it and turning it, startling a young reporter upon the other side as he walked out, Evey upon his arm. The woman stared for a moment while the couple stood very still in surprise, having not heard anyone in the hallway.

But then a bright smile split her face, and she straightened almost to a military stance, holding a hand out. "Please follow me to the studio. Mister Dascombe had me wait for you just in case you didn't remember how to find it."

"Oh, I remember it well, I assure you," V replied, but he allowed her to show them the way without complaint. Everyone that they passed stopped at seeing the stately black-clad man, seeing the slight limp and the stiff arm, but they also saw the set shoulders and the way the mask moved. These were the people who watched and rewatched the footage that V had left on that disk. They knew his movements while he appeared in public, and in seeing the actual man before them, the media lowered all cameras in respect and honor of the man who had brought them freedom. They had been planning to take a few publicity pictures of the young woman.

They hadn't expected this, and weren't going to tempt fate.

Walking into the studio, V caused all motion to stop. There were a few who had seen him in 

this same room but under different circumstances. One stepped forward with a hand fisted, but another cameraman grabbed his arm. V bowed his head, one hand sweeping out lightly to include everyone in the room. "I feel I owe a few of you an apology for previous behavior."

"But we're free," someone whispered in the back. Murmurs affirmed that statement, and Evey gave a slight tug upon the arm of the former terrorist, barely enough to be seen and only hard enough to be felt. He nodded his head before proudly walking up to the set, securing Evey in her seat before he stood behind her.

"If you wish, sir, you can indeed take the other chair," Dascombe said as gently and respectfully as possible.

"I heartily thank you for your offer, however, I must decline for the moment." The taller man made a small gesture to Evey. "My dear Evey is allowed to be relaxed and at ease. She has been here before and the public know her, and more about her than they do about me. Allow me my quirks, Mister Dascombe."

With a smile, the younger man nodded, and turned to deal with a few things with an assistant that had come up with a checklist that he had to look over. It gave Evey the opportunity to turn and look up at V, hissing, "You will sit down before we're halfway through with the interview, or you will pass out."

"I assure you, I will do nothing of either sort."

"V . . ." her voice was a dark warning.

Sighing, he gave a small tip of his head to one side, then straightened from his bow to hear what she had been saying. "Very well. After the first commercial, I shall sit."

"Thank you."

"Hsst! Rolling!" a young voice said, but it went ignored by those who were still on set. The lead cameraman looked around, then motioned to the soundmen to catch what was being said between the two former conspirators.

"You always worry about me, Evey."

"Someone has to."

"I am becoming painfully aware of that fact."

"Poetic."

"Isn't it?"

Dascombe looked up and around, then yelped, "Bugger! We're on air!"

The duo looked at him and blinked. ". . . what?"

And yet outside, the sounds of cheers were echoing down the streets at the sight and sound of the catalyst of their revolution was seen.


End file.
